


Phantoms in the Fog

by Luthienberen



Series: 100fandoms Dreamwidth Challenge [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Choose Not to Warn, Gen, Jack the Ripper - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-02-26
Packaged: 2019-11-06 03:50:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17932310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luthienberen/pseuds/Luthienberen
Summary: Watson agrees to a help a friend by overseeing their shift at the London Hospital in Whitechapel on the night that one of London’s infamous fogs descends upon the city. Forging out into an opaque world Watson focuses on his duty and the phantoms lurking in the fog. Yet an encounter during the night brings the phantom of the Ripper all too close.





	Phantoms in the Fog

**Author's Note:**

> My first attempt writing in the Canon Sherlock Holmes, so any tips or pointers are welcome! Based on the watsons_woes monthly prompt “Extreme weather”.
> 
> Also included in the 100 fandoms dreamwidth challenge, Prompt 010. Shadows [100fandoms](https://100fandoms.dreamwidth.org/).
> 
>  **Beta:** Rae (thank you for your keen eye!)

* * *

 

_11 th November 1888_

I write this for my own observances only and so that I may exercise the demon of self-doubt following the latest atrocity of the monster called “Jack the Ripper”. Holmes insists that I shouldn’t be plagued by such self-torments, but there his sentiments overcome him.

A machine I call him in my published writings, with rare blushes of affection. Yet in private I may acknowledge Holmes is deeply sentimental when it concerns those he cares about.

Thus he kindly tries to deflect blame from myself and any censure. I usually bow to his assessment of a case and his vast knowledge and understanding of criminals and their crimes. Yet in this I must disobey his protestations for they come from a mind clouded with concern over my wellbeing.

Holmes is out now on the trail of the Ripper after ensuring I was settled with tea and Mrs Hudson’s finest scones. He declared I required rest and sustenance after no sleep and much fretting. I cannot argue with his logic nor with his apt observation that doctors and nurses are the worst of patients.

So I am sitting by my desk this morning and not in my customary chair as when Holmes left me. No doubt he will deduce my activities upon entering, but I think he will understand and even sympathise when he reads my account.

Only for Holmes and myself shall this be, unless I should add this to my store of private papers in Cox and Co.

~ ~ ~

It was at the end of October – either the night of the 31st or 30th, for there my memory is slightly smudged. I would have to check records at the London Hospital for assurance and that would lead to questions I rather not entertain.

At any rate I had retired to bed extremely early, just after midday to catch some much needed sleep. We had just finished the case of Miss Mary Morstan, (yet to be written up fully or published and with certain facts smudged to protect all parties, including ourselves), followed by a rather intense case in the week following.

The case was a minor one but full of activity.

We had been visited by a Doctor Kotov, who offered his services for free at the London Hospital. As a foreigner he was unfortunately looked at askance, but the London Hospital could ill afford to turn away doctors or nurses who were willing to spend a few precious hours of their free time supplying voluntary services to the desperately poor of the city, particularly the East End.

Situated in Whitechapel where the recent horrendous murders had taken place, Holmes had naturally been keen for the reason behind Dr Kotov’s visit. I could tell by the gleam in his eye, the nervous energy in the manner in which he fiddled with his pipe before sitting to watch our visitor cat like.

Many have asked me in the years following Jack the Ripper, (though at the time that epithet was still new to us in October 1888), why Mr Holmes had never investigated the Ripper murders. The honest truth? While Inspector Abberline did indeed consult with Holmes, he had to do so in secret for his superiors would not have been be pleased to discover he had approached a private consulting detective.

Yet even my friend is limited by needing clues, no matter how minor, and the problem with the Ripper murders was their lack of witness statements that were consistent, partly due to the poor lighting conditions of Whitechapel, and the lack of tangible clues at the scenes of the crime. Each time my friend managed to slip into the scene any clues had been worn away by too many careless feet.

Thus, any visit by a person from such an infamous area, especially a hospital where victims might end up was of interest – for, as Holmes said to me, “Not even such a fiend can be successful each time my dear Watson. There must be women who escaped, but perhaps do not realise the importance of their encounters.”

Alas, Doctor Kotov’s visit did not appear to be related to these crimes, but to do with a spate of stolen supplies from one of the medical storage rooms in the hospital. It was in a rarely used part of the hospital, due to the need to repair one of the operating rooms and a small disused ward.

However, Doctor Kotov and a handful of the other unpaid volunteers had fixed two of the disused storage rooms and cleared a room which could be used to receive patients. It wasn’t ideal, but at least it relieved the pressure on the main part of the hospital.

Now however, supplies – obtained through their own money and precious donations from all ranks of society and thus more valuable than sapphires – had gone missing from one of these cupboards. Dr Kotov was reluctant to accuse anyone, but naturally had formed suspicions.

Holmes did acquiesce to take on the case, for he could sense my outrage at these thefts which could only deprive a populace already in desperate straights and his own morals wouldn’t allow for this to pass without comment.

And so we had spent an extremely active week scouring Whitechapel, (with Holmes discreetly looking for the Ripper in quiet moments), interviewing persons of interest and in my case, becoming known at the hospital.

A trail of  bandages, surgical knives (the most worrying in my mind), laudanum and such forth led us not to the man who had absconded with them, but the rather disturbing site of his operations. I shall draw a veil over what he discovered, but suffice to say that the Ripper was not alone in his perversions.

Holmes even considered it might be the Ripper, but there was no substantial proof for this, so we did not dare say anything to Inspector Abberline who was already buried under a deluge of false confessions, time wasters and angry members of the public from the poorest to the wealthiest.

Holmes still rankled at the man successfully fleeing, under what he suspects is a false name. I caught my dear friend penning a missive to his brother Mycroft and so do not doubt that the “doctor” will be pursued with the relentless intelligence and implacable nature of two of the cleverest men in Britain and with the resources of the government.

Following our escapades I had promised Doctor Kotov to cover for him since one of his patients required all night care after a particularly tricky operation.

So on that fateful day I retired early on an afternoon that was cold and grey. Holmes was busy organising his papers to bring them up to date concerning our latest exploits.

When I first opened my eyes after a rest full of unsettled dreams I initially believed myself still to be asleep, for a thick yellow fog suffused my bedchamber and so thick that I could barely discern the low table by my bed, let alone my pocket watch.

I sat up rather disoriented and shivering at the pervading cold. Coughing at the vile sulphurous miasma,  I shook my head to shake off the vestiges of my nightmares. They slipped away to hide in the fog that wreathed my frame like some overdone gothic romance.

Managing to stop my coughing, I fumbled for the matchbox and candle on my bedside table. Once lit it barely penetrated the fog, but I forced myself to climb carefully out of my bed and stumble to my window which I had foolishly left open. Once shut I felt my way to my door and flung it open.

Going out on the landing and praying Mrs Hudson did not catch me without my dressing robe I breathed fresh air with relief. Peering down the stairs I could tell that the lamps were lit, but that could be due to how dark the pea souper had rendered the day.

Once the fog had dissipated sufficiently to allow me to discern my belongings I hurried back inside, shutting the door. A check of my pocket watch showed that it was five and so natural darkness had met the unnatural perversion of our latest London particular.

Traveling to Whitechapel tonight would be unpleasant to say the least. I chose my most comfortable worn garments anticipating a long night at the hospital: trousers which were respectable but not stiff with newness and shoes that were comfortable from many – but not too many – wears.

A cravat and dark waistcoat finished the ensemble under a black jacket.  Dashing downstairs I met Holmes.

“Ah Watson! Just in time for one of Mrs Hudson’s splendid suppers.” His eyes glinted with amusement as he took my arm and escorted me into our living quarters.

A lovely supper was laid out smelling of hearty comforts. Inhaling with appreciation I let Holmes push me into my seat. He sat and poured a glass of wine.

“A glass to keep you warm on your journey Watson.”

I smiled and sipped. “There is no need to worry Holmes. A London fog will not gain mastery over me.”

Holmes frowned slightly as he placed shepherd’s pie on our plates.

“I am not worried Watson.”

“Indeed Holmes.”

I tucked into my food with hunger and as ever relishing each bite. Holmes ate well because he wasn’t consumed by a case, for I had put my foot down concerning the Ripper murders. By grace we would be fortunate and the fiend would not strike again, but even if he did, no man could sustain Holmes’ punishing regime over months.

I had won after a number of arguments and a threat to advise Inspector Abberline that I could not, from a medical standpoint, permit his visits. Holmes had sulked but had seen my logical point, how could he function as a consulting detective if suffering from a deprivation of sleep and food?

I quickly finished, regretfully passing up a slice of ginger cake. Rising from my seat I was aware of Holmes glancing at the window with what appeared a disinterested expression. However, I could see the tiny twitch at the corners of his mouth, the extra long blink and the tap of his fingers on the table to a piece of music fluting through his mind that he was fretting.

We had endured many London particulars, but in the current climate I understood his concerns.

“I shall be careful Holmes,” I assured him as I donned a very thick woollen overcoat – a present from Holmes.

“The Ripper is not the only unpleasant element in the East End,” murmured Holmes. He stood however and followed me down our steps and to the front door. I took up my Gladstone bag and faced Holmes.

“Be observant Watson!”

I smiled, how often had I heard this?

“I will Holmes, do not stay up too late.”

Holmes sniffed and held open the door for me. The light of the hallway lamp did not offer much illumination and I forded out with my scarf wrapped over my mouth and nose in an attempt to filter out some of the noxious fog.

Once I took three steps from our door it was as if 221b did not exist. All around me the world was a thick blanket of fog. Raising a hand you could hardly see it. The smell and irritating nature of this pea souper still tickled my throat, but I succeeded in stifling my coughs as I walked with great caution along the street.

At the corner I hailed a cab with tremendous difficultly, and at a pace slower than a hedgehog the cab driver eventually conveyed me to the London Hospital.

I felt my way in with some relief to a well lit reception area where people were milling. The working class, some poorer than others, were gathered in this section upon any chair available. Considering the conditions outside there were more than I had anticipated.

Nevertheless I made my way to the front desk where the secretary greeted me with a warm if tired smile, for by now I was recognisable. I returned the gesture and the young lady bent her head to add me to the rota of doctors and surgeons on call that night.

I noticed that the list was rather brief and knew that the fog was the most likely the cause. Those who lived further away would be delayed in their travels by the terrible visual cap the opaque cloud outside presented. Even those who lived in Whitechapel had a dangerous journey, evading pick pockets and burglars who saw an opportunity in this weather.

When the secretary turned the register to me I added my signature, the date and time.

“Frightful weather Miss Gold.”

“Yes sir, I hope the other doctors and nurses arrive soon or we will be in a right state.”

“I am certain they will try Miss Gold. Unless otherwise needed I will be in Doctor Kotov’s usual position.”

Miss Gold nodded and whispered, “Can I send some of the rougher elements to you Dr Watson?”

I understood what she meant. Compared to the two doctors currently overseeing the surgery in this part of the hospital I was the only gentleman who appeared as if I could protect myself – and had done so recently. A surly patient in pain or drunk would be less likely to find insult in my comments or attentions, than a doctor who appeared as if a child could knock them over.

“Of course Miss Gold. Just grant me ten minutes to settle myself.”

I quickly walked to the little out of the away section of the hospital where a musty smell still lingered despite our best efforts. However, once I entered through the doors into the small room set aside for our patients – the disused operation room further down a short corridor and the ward room to my left still awaiting our full attentions – the dusty taint was replaced by the powerful scent of carbolic soap.

Only Nurse Brown had arrived ahead of me and she merely spared me a brief nod in her task of setting up the only form of privacy we had here: screens donated by a wealthy patron. The fabric was faded, but offered discretion from prying eyes and the consulting “rooms” were against the far wall, spaced so that by keeping our voices low we could discuss treatments with our patients in relative privacy.

In a matter of a moment I had placed my Gladstone aside, taken off my heavy coat, scarf and gloves and stashed them in the battered cupboard dedicated to storing our belongings when on duty. Locking it securely I pocketed my key and claimed a screened off area. Three chairs, (one for my good self and two spare for a patient and companion if necessary), and an old oaken table were the only pieces of furniture.

I took out some contents of my bag and waited for my first patient.

He arrived, arm clearly broken and white with pain. His frame was lean from hard work and a hungry expression was in his blue eyes. Yet he never caused any trouble as I set the troublesome limb. Prescribing laudanum while knowing what he really needed – and couldn’t afford – was a respite from work, I wished him the best of fortune.

From there my evening and night wore on in a relentless stream of patients coughing their lungs clean from the ill effects of the fog, and in many cases the fog exacerbating underlying conditions. Starved or suffering from poor nutrition as these people were, there was little I could do beyond take care of them, prescribe some medicine if possible and direct them to one of the few charities that handed out hot food.

Amid this minor chaos, there were quiet lulls where I snatched a tea or coffee and once a bowl of soup. Finally, as two in the morning chimed I gathered my coat to take some air, as I had developed a dreadful headache from my work, the antiseptic odours and breaking up arguments before they flared up into brawls.

Using a convenient side door that was normally padlocked shut I stepped outside to discover the fog was still prevalent.

Grimacing at the tickle in my throat I took up my cigarette for a much needed smoke. This choking cloud caused no end of lung disorders, yet what could I do? Inside and out my head rang and some air, foul as it was, supplied me with an opportunity to stretch my legs without being caught by a stray nurse or fellow doctor.

The two doctors on duty with me had finally arrived after an hour walk to the hospital, and were recovered sufficiently to cover my absence for a few precious minutes.

The stones under my feet were hard and the cold from them pressed through my soles and up my legs. Shuddering, I stamped my feet as I lit the cigarette, the door lamp aiding my actions. Its glow formed a small pool about me, outside which the world was full of nameless horrors.

Sound was muffled and my vision constrained – these with the icy cold of the October night upon my tired body and mind worked on my spirit, conjuring up the shadows of my nightmares: remnants of Maiwand, that operating room we had discovered and the poor broken patients I had been attending to inside.

I inhaled my cigarette rather too swiftly due to my unsteady nerves and as I did so I became aware of a noise through the fog. You will comprehend how distorted sounds are in our London fogs and this one was no different. At first I could not quite understand what I heard so strained my ears to try and detect it again.

I even peered through the gloom for what it was worth, my cigarette forgotten. I could have sworn I heard voices.

There!

Two low murmuring voices, a man and woman. Who would be out on such a night unless they had business in the hospital or some other work?

Surely not even ladies of particular disposition would be walking out? For a moment I stood indecisive for calling out seemed intrusive and there was nothing to suggest that the lady in question was in danger.

Yet the phantom of Jack the Ripper loomed in my head.

As I wrestled with indecision the voices moved closer and I realised that whoever they were must have become disoriented in the fog. We were off Whitechapel Road, but the side streets were a bewildering maze even for me, and I had a good head for orientating myself.

Yet this fog changed the world from known to unknown, to phantoms and ghostly noises and shapes in the yellow darkness…

Yes, the couple, if they were a couple, probably thought they were in a deserted side street and the building not the hospital for from this angle there were no signs. As I waited now in determination to ensure that the woman was fine, I realised that the opaque cloud was shifting about me, caught in a sudden breeze.

Their footsteps were eerie, blunted as they were by this poisonous pall. Then they stopped short of me and I blinked. How far away were they? Perceptions of distance were all askew and signified nothing, while I stood shrouded in nervous doubt.

The burn of my cigarette nearly had me cry out but I bit my lip. As I rubbed my fingers I heard a gasp and not waiting to perceive whether the gasp was one of pleasure or fright I began tip toeing down the path. The fingers of my singed right hand were on the wall of the hospital so I could keep track of my bearings.

A sudden coughing gasp struck me hard and the detached sound of a struggle filtered to my ears. Finding my voice I called out.

“Hey! What goes on here?”

I poured as rough an accent as I could to my words, hoping that would thwart a brute more readily than an educated tone. The sounds of a struggle paused, yet before I could hope my shout had stopped matters I heard a chilling scream.

Instantly I shouted that I was armed. Unfortunately all I was armed with was with my spare surgical knife kit in my right pocket. I always kept a spare in my overcoat, because with Holmes life was truly an adventure – usually with ruffians or upset clients who did not always appreciate Holmes’ deductions – and my trusty revolver was not always to hand.

Nevertheless I dragged out with practiced ease my thinnest yet sharpest blade and was running foolishly towards where I prayed the woman was. Her cries were beginning to grow fainter and my heart was pounding, flesh chilled.

Abandoning the wall I ran on, yelling for the coward to stop. The cries ceased and were replaced by a quiet sobbing. Footsteps faded in the distance as I nearly fell over the form of a woman close to a swoon.

I sank to my knees, glancing about for the brute, but could see only a few paces in front of me. The fog veiled our surroundings within which threats lurked unseen.

On the alert, I turned to the victim and found her reviving. Her vivid white face stared up at me and conscious of my blade I pocketed it before she saw it and misunderstood. My stomach twisted as I took in the cut to her cheek and the serious slashes to her arms and hands.

“Do not move Miss, you are badly hurt.”

I pressed a hand over the gash in her arm in an attempt to staunch the flow. She must have raised her arms and hands to defend herself. Fortunately her arteries had not been struck otherwise there would have been little I could do. As it was, I managed to tear my necktie free and tie it around the worst injury. The other arm I used her own tatty scarf, noting I would have to sterilise her wounds thoroughly to prevent infection.

Finger marks were deeply impressed on her throat and I grimly realised how close to being silenced she had come.  If I had not stepped outside for a break when I had, but ten minutes later then this grotesque attack would have unfolded while I smoked unawares a few yards off!

Repellent!

As I wrapped her other arm as tightly as feasible, hands slick with blood, the woman breathed heavily, eyes glazed with shock. She was trembling and her skin icy to the touch. I made soothing noises as I examined her hands.

They fortunately had not been deeply cut and I pressed my handkerchief into service for the deepest one of her right palm. Fearing for her wellbeing as her eyes fluttered, I became aware of footsteps and of a presence.

Swivelling and reaching for my blade, but keeping my hand tucked in my pocket for now, I spoke with all the authority of a former army doctor and now doctor in a busy hospital.

“Who goes there? Show yourself!”

A tall dark blurry figure stepped through the cloying fog and resolved into a gentleman. He wore clothes suggesting he had been at a club and was returning home. At least I presume at this hour that was the case. Yet…I could not recall any clubs nearby.

This did not immediately arouse my suspicions unduly for there are many clubs scattered about London where you had to know the right people to learn of their existence, let alone geographical location. I remained wary, but tried for civil.

“Did you hear or see a man running away?”

A low voice responded, cool and unhurried. “In this fog? Hardly. I was returning home after visiting my club when I became lost. I thought I heard something and thus approached. What has happened here?”

I turned my head a touch so I could glimpse my fallen lady, while simultaneously keeping the stranger in my vision. The poor woman had fainted. Alarm suffused me, for once unconscious the danger was the patient ever regaining consciousness.

I had no choice but to trust this opportune stranger.

“Help me!” I urged.

Did those eyes gleam with amusement, or is my memory opaque like that terrible fog? No, I am certain there was a glimmer of humour in the dark eyes, for I recall the rush of anger I experienced at the sight.

Nevertheless both the lady and I were vulnerable and I required assistance to carry her through the fog as expediently as possible.

“Naturally I shall help,” came the measured reply. His voice was oddly unaffected by finding a strange men bending over an injured woman.

Later I would recall the peculiarity of it. Surely any person’s first query would be what is my business and where I was planning to take this injured woman? I could have been her assailant for all he knew!

At the time however anxiety for my patient’s condition overrode these concerns. I gestured for the gentleman to support her on the left. This allowed me to support her while ensuring I kept my right hand in my pocket, surgical blade clutched between sweaty fingers despite the chill and them being wet with blood.

All too slowly we gradually propelled the poor woman down the street. Time was excruciating and her whimpers were agony to me. Yet my companion was unaffected. I knew for while we stumbled forward, risking much in the thick yellow cloud that caused us to cough and my patient to gasp weakly, I would often look upon him.

Once he boldly met my gaze and grinned. There was a certain cruelty to that mouth and the audacious wink he graced me with that chilled me more than the injured woman or the cold October night.

“May I inquire where we are heading?” he eventually asked as with profound relief I saw the small pool of light marking the door I had exited what felt like hours ago.

“The London Hospital – I am a doctor.”

I ensured I was staring at him as I spoke and I am glad I did. For the briefest moment his expression transformed and I could have sworn I saw a demon in the flash of fury that turned his eyes hateful and nostrils flaring.

Then it was gone and he was a perfect gentleman once more. My mind by then was ridden with doubt and conflicting emotions. Could he have been this poor woman’s attacker? But how? Why? Would he truly return after fleeing the scene no matter how brief?

Did he pray that clearly lost, by retracing his steps to his victim he could ingratiate himself and perhaps even steal her away from me? I could not observe any blood on him from my position and there ought to be from the seriousness of the lady’s wounds. Though any blood sighted at this juncture could conceivably be argued to be from supporting our victim.

The attempt to strangle her and subsequent slashing wounds ought to also have left him disarrayed unless he had cleaned himself in the short minutes I had worked to staunch my patient’s blood flow. My hands were still sticky, my right cloying in my pocket, so it wouldn’t have been easy.

We reached the door as I twisted the facts, conscious of how the horrid London pea souper was clouding my mind and the concern for my patient was racing through my body, my own blood thrumming under my skin.

My headache was a fierce stabbing pain in my temples and the poor illumination of the door lamp sufficient to aggravate the agony.

At the door the gentleman paused, but sensing my increasing distrust actually continued. I hated revealing this entrance but pushed on. After an exhausting walk where I feared the poor lady may bleed through my makeshift bandages we went through the entrance into the patient area.

“Boże k-!”

Doctor Wójcik cut himself off before committing blasphemy and rushed over. The handful of patients present also cried out in shock and stared.

My helper ducked his head.

“Where to?” he asked, voice brusque.

“Just through these doors,” I indicated with my head, recalling my bloodied hand.

Together we navigated to the unused ward, where a long low table had been situated. We performed minor surgeries here so it could be quickly and easily cleaned, which was what I needed now. Doctors Wójcik and Darling followed us after fetching surgical supplies and Dr Darling calling out for hot water. The stranger supported my patient as Dr Darling, whose hands were clean, washed down the table with a mixture of carbolic soap and water, followed by scalding water sloshed over the surface. A quick dry down and it was ready.

“Place her gently on the table,” he said to the gentleman, who obeyed without a word, lifting the lady onto the oaken table.  I attempted to block his exit by huddling by the door with Doctor Wójcik as we scrubbed our hands scrupulously and accepted clean frocks from Nurse Brown who carried in our surgical implements which were submerged in carbolic acid to sterilise them.

At this point I was barely paying attention to the peculiar man who had assisted me and who roused my suspicions. He was currently stood to one side, gaze flicking between the woman and the doors. Yet his expression!

Fascination, which while not too unusual was tempered by that amused smile. Sick to my stomach I stepped forward even as Dr Darling applied ether to our patient for she was beginning to stir. We did not have much time for blood was seeping through my makeshift bandages.

With haste I selected her right arm and Doctor Wójcik her left. We simultaneously cleaned the area before beginning to stitch swiftly and with great precision. Dr Darling joined our efforts, sensing the urgency of the case. Yet he also had to maintain a vigil on the lady’s breathing, ensuring that the application of ether had not been too great or too little.

Once I saw him frown, looking past me before ducking his head to continue with sewing up the gash on the lady’s cheek. Discreetly I turned my head, ostensibly to dispose of my needle and remaining thread in the dish supplied by Nurse Brown. The erstwhile saviour was staring with avid fascination and _glee_ at our operations. This was beyond a mere interest in surgery that someone who was not a doctor or nurse _should have_.

This was a satisfaction that indicated a job well done. As if feeling the weight of my gaze, the gentleman turned, met my eyes and actually smiled. Then he inclined his head and was gone. I could hardly call out and demand he be stopped could I?

All I had was inferences based on actions which could be due to an overwrought mind, compounded by the fog and how I had found this poor unfortunate woman and the state she was in.

So away he slipped, leaving us to our work. We finished our tasks and used bandages soaked in carbolic acid to keep the wounds clean of infection. Another few minutes and we had tidied ourselves and immediate area.

Nurse Brown by now had organised a bed for our patient and orderlies appeared to transfer her. The three of us retreated to our small designated reception area and collapsed behind my screen.

We said nothing just gazed at each other mutely. Exhaustion and confusion warred on my companions’ expressions.

At last Doctor Wójcik stirred and rose. “Our patients,” he said with a sigh.

Doctor Darling shook himself and joined the Pole. “With luck things will quieten down soon.”

I rubbed my hand over my face and nodded in agreement. My fellow doctors exchanged one last look and then left. And so we persevered with our work until we were relieved with the new shift as a sun rose over a bleak city.

 The three of us left together by the side entrance, checking it with a fervour that betrayed our individual suspicions. Once the padlock was secured we pressed together as much as possible and with bent heads began walking through a fog that was thinning but still present.

By unspoken agreement we escorted Doctor Darling to his home. He left us with tired eyes and pursed lips.

My remaining companion and I stumbled to his home, casting glances over our shoulders for we were uneasy. A shadow flickered at the edges of our vision and the sensation of being pursued dogged our steps.

At a suitable corner, Doctor Wójcik hailed a lad hanging at a corner of a bakery, staring with longing at the delicious cakes inside. To my surprise, the Pole offered him enough money to buy a tray of cakes if only he would secure a carriage for us. The boy’s eyes lit up and he pelted off.

 “Why?”

“We are tired my friend. And because while we do not speak of _whom_ attacked that poor woman, for we have no proof, we all think of the same name. The phantom that drifted into and away from our surgery. A phantom which lurks after us now and I assure you, it is no common thief. I have experience in burglars most unfortunately, believe me.”

Bright eyes glinted at me despite my companion’s exhaustion. “I think it would be wise you returned to your friend and did not come to Whitechapel for a while.”

Hearing my doubts reflected increased them along with a corresponding guilt. Yet without proof our accusations could not be taken seriously by any police officer, particularly an overburdened Inspector Abberline and police force. We had no name for goodness sake!

“You are wise indeed.”

“I think it fortunate we never spoke our names while operating,” was the dry response.

I shuddered and rolled my injured shoulder which ached fiercely and touched my head which prickled with stabbing needles of pain.

Fortunately, in short order the boy had returned with a hansom. I insisted on paying my share and we rewarded the lad handsomely. His thin face lit up and he doffed his hat, dashing into the bakery. As we stepped into the hansom I heard him declaring loudly that his sisters must have the jam tarts.

The rest of the boy’s order was lost as the horses clopped on their way. We both sank back in silence, lost in our grim reflections. Doctor Wójcik parted from me with a handshake and I promised that he and Doctor Kotov would see me soon.

Grinning at that he entered his house and I felt reassured for he shared his home with his large family, in particular two brothers built on the lines of Hercules. Eventually I too was conveyed to 221b and with great happiness I paid the driver and ran up the steps, clutching my bag close.

My overcoat reeked of clotted blood and with determination I opened the front entrance casting a glance over my shoulder. Nothing.

However, I did not relax until I ran up into out sitting room, where Holmes was awake, alert and by the window sash, observing the street without being seen.

“Who are you afraid of Watson?” he asked.

“A phantom,” I replied.

He raised an eyebrow and looked at me. A cry escaped him and my normally reserved friend sprang across the room.

“What happened my dear Watson? Here, have some brandy. Let me take your coat! You are not hurt are you? Mrs Hudson!”

My friend’s concern was a balm to my ruffled nerves and the aches of my body.

I succeeded in calming Holmes and Mrs Hudson – the latter with the explanation of a rough night and the former with the truth once Mrs Hudson departed to fetch me hot water and a hot breakfast.

Holmes sat in silence, smoking his dreadful tobacco while I washed up and sat to a mouth watering array of bacon, eggs and toast, accompanied by tea and coffee.

At last he stirred, placing aside his pipe and long thin fingers pressing briefly to his lips.

“Well Holmes?”

“If this man was Jack the Ripper we have no proof, just coincidences and inferences based on the emotions of you and your companions. I hold your guess work in high regard my friend, but the police would dismiss your concerns.”

“Rightfully so?”

Holmes shrugged regretfully.

“Try not to overly concern yourself Watson. I will speak to this poor unfortunate woman later if she is still in the hospital. At the moment I am more worried for you my dear Watson. To bed and then a quiet day by the fire. Leave everything to me.”

Deeply touched by my friend’s warm affection I rose with a smile and a feeling that surely everything would be fine now that Holmes was involved.

Holmes escorted me upstairs, ensured my window was shut and door open so he could hear me move downstairs. A few minutes after I retired to my bed for a few hours sleep I heard him playing a slow gentle song on his violin. Serenaded thus to the arms of Morpheus, I fell into the world of dreams.

Phantoms chased me in the form of tall strangers and crying women, but eventually they dissipated just like the fog had done when I awoke.

Holmes unfortunately never spoke to my patient for the hospital refused him admittance and my fellow colleagues could not access her, for the hospital was wary of the interest aroused in her. Our report had been submitted to the police and the hospital believed no further action was needed currently, until the police had addressed the unfortunate woman.

Alas, when the lady awoke she was too afraid to speak much and what Holmes could glean afterwards was that she had been innocently walking home when a man accosted her. She recalled nothing of his features or clothes.

Holmes said afterwards that he did not blame the lady for her reticence. The law was rarely compassionate for individuals like her and perhaps she feared retribution in case her attacker ever returned to the area and remembered her.

So the matter rested until the demonic destruction wrought upon Miss Mary Kelly on the 9th of November 1888.

I collapsed with guilt and horror once we had witnessed what the fiend had done to Mary Kelly.

Holmes tried assuaging my guilt and today is attempting to follow up any clues possible. My fellow doctors: Wójcik, Kotov and Darling have written to me, submitting to Holmes all they recalled of that night – and in Kotov’s case, of the thefts from the storage cabinets in case they shed any illumination on this latest grisly murder.

I can only pray that Holmes, with the support of the police, manages to track down Jack the Ripper.

For I have looked into hell and the gates need shutting.

_John Watson, M.D._

**Author's Note:**

> **A.N.:**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> 1.) Drs Kotov, Wójcik and Darling are fictional characters with no bearing on any real person and any resemblance is unintentional. To my friend Rae, you may recognise two of these as the ancestors to a couple of the characters in your gift fic ;)
> 
> 2.) The London Hospital was founded in 1740 as the “London Infirmary” as a volunteer/charitable hospital, with the intention of serving the local poor for free (in the days before free medical care). It was renamed the Royal London Hospital in 1990 on its 250th anniversary year.
> 
> 3.) The London Hospital is linked to the murders of these poor women through one of their surgeons. Dr Thomas Horrocks Openshaw was asked to examine the half a kidney delivered to Lusk by “Jack the Ripper” and purporting to be from Catherine Eddowes, who was murdered on 30th September 1888. He later received a letter from “Jack the Ripper” in response to his analysis of the kidney. Whether the kidney and subsequent letter were from Catherine Eddowes and Jack the Ripper respectively is for debate.
> 
> 4.) I made free with a fictional ‘old disused part’ of London Hospital, instead of making an error in a real area of the hospital. 
> 
> 5.) I make no claim to: the identity of the Ripper, how many women he killed and if he acted alone.


End file.
